My family traditionally spends Thanksgiving at Pinkham Notch, at the base of Mount Washington in New Hampshire. We hike, eat a meal prepared for us by the lodge staff, and enjoy the rustic comforts (read: reading by the fireplace). This year, icy alpine roads and distance from Boston physicians were not exactly favored criteria for the holiday weekend, no matter the other qualities.

Our menu was as follows:

• Beet Soup
• Biscuits
• Herb Butter Turkey
• Whole Pumpkin, Stuffed with Rice, Kale, & Cheese
• Brussel Sprouts with Mustard Vinaigrette
• Stuffing
• Mashed Potatoes
• Cranberry Relish
• Turkey Gravy
• Mushroom Gravy
• Llajwa
• Duckhorn 2006 Napa Valley Merlot
• Apple, Pear & Cranberry Crumble Pie with Whipped Cream
• Coffee

I would say we did stupendously, for my family being a bit out of practice. Have I mentioned that my favorite color is beet soup? Have I mentioned that I adore food? Have I mentioned that I am living on the East Coast through the end of the year? Wow.

The last time I spent more than two weeks in Massachusetts was the summer of 2001, having returned to live at home after my first year of college. How old was I? 19? Yes, 19. I will go ahead and call this, now, the first time I will have lived in Massachusetts for a significant period as an adult. I am not sure what to expect from this time.

Well, for one, and most importantly, I will become an uncle. Nicole and Mark are less than two weeks away from welcoming Blueberry into this world. Our family is getting bigger! I suppose our family is already bigger by virtue of Nicole's belly enormity. I love you, Nicole, and this is the best ever, but your belly is huge. You were always little Colie—once I got taller than you at least—but you're little Colie plus a watermelon now.

Tell me, again, how we became adults and this all happened?

Truly, I could not imagine being away during this period. Blueberry is coming! I need to be here to see Blueberry! I am so thankful for my present circumstance, that I can pick up and fly to Boston to be close to family. The religious or spiritual connotations of the word are not my favorite but allow me, please, to say that I feel blessed. Lucky is hapless and banal and I do not feel lucky. I feel blessed.

Etymologically, blessed is consecrated by blood. Allow me to redefine to suit my purposes: blessed is made dear by family.

Blessed is having been raised well, loved and cared for, in a warm family and home where hugs were given and hot food was served (however infrequently it was turkey). Blessed is the camaraderie, support, roofs, and shenanigans offered by that larger family, my friends in Seattle and San Francisco and everywhere.

Blessed is experiencing the wide world. Blessed is receiving an education, an inquisitive and critical mind, and the means and confidence to make my own way. Blessed is making that way, losing that way, and accepting that lost and found are all part of it. Blessed is knowing that I am never truly alone.

Blessed is returning home to my family glowing, reunited all about Mark and Nicole in this new consecration. Blessed is goofing in the kitchen and playing dominoes after dinner.

Blessed is love, blessed we be, and blessed be Blueberry. Thank you.

I have a tendency to remark, seriously and sometimes not so much so, "The moon is full. I should be traveling." I said as much last night at dinner on a friend's balcony. The moon is full tonight and tomorrow I fly to Boston for two weeks with the family. I should be out walking underneath the full moon right now. How far to the Atlantic?

I caught glimpses of Mount Rainier at sunset last night, from the aforementioned balcony, and then again this evening while swimming in Lake Washington. When I arrive late for my swim, and the sun is already hidden behind the hills and trees, I can stroke away from shore and back out into the daylight. At the buoy, with the low sun on the chill lake, the mountain is there. Here, in Seattle, you say the mountain—the mountain is out—and no one doubts as to your subject. Here, in Seattle, the weather and landscape so dominate our perspective. There, there is our mountain, Rainier: wonder at its majesty. Here, here we are in Seattle, where the rain falls always and life is still somehow marvelous.

Saturday afternoon I will swim again in a small lake, quietly beautiful in the Northeastern way, no grand jagged mountains, no salmon somewhere down there in this same lake as me. But beautiful, with its own little bass: I will swim again in New Hampshire with my family.

I departed for Costa Rica in January and have not seen my father, sister, or brother-in-law since. (My mother visited me in Peru.) Good then that I will reunite with them, that I will join them in a week of escape. Well, relative escape: I will still be working remotely. What's new?

What is new, what is nascent? I will see Nicole, my sister, for the first time since our fateful May 3rd conversation, me in a Mendoza hotel room and she in Boston. She, newly aware, told me she was due with her and Mark's first child, due on my birthday December 9th. This woman, this Colie Wolie, has a little Blueberry in her belly.

I am so excited. Life will continue and our family will grow. And Nicole and Mark will likely not enjoy so many naps in future years. Sleep, then, now for me and perhaps not then: what uncle will I be?

Passing by the exit for 210 East felt wrong—not heading to Claremont, for once—and so did listening to some random indie-folk as I elected instead 405 South. I changed up The Tallest Man on Earth for Mika; "We Are Golden" felt like Los Angeles no matter the singer's origins. And then I changed again, to the 2004 Braineater Pump Up Mix. "F*ck Wit Dre Day" was just right.

I'll be staying with my aunt and uncle in the Valley for the next few days, catching up with friends in the area and working as much as I am able. Los Angeles... California... what are these places?

I spent the last three days staying near Palo Alto with my cousin Cindy, her husband Jay, and their sons Adam and Eric. I played with Bionicles and regular-type Legos, drew pictures, sprained my ankle, went to the beach, and generally fulfilled duties as cool-older-cousin. So apparently one of the themes of 2010 is catching up with Bolivian family: in other words, being a better person.

On I-5 South, just a bit south of Gilroy and early in my drive today, I noticed first a black plume of smoke up ahead of me. It wasn't the smoke monster from LOST. I reached eventually a mess of brush fire and fire trucks on the opposite side of the northbound lane. Traffic was backed up for over three miles but at the front of this jam were half a dozen people or so, dancing and singing in the median with a trumpet, accordion, and tuba.

My aunt and uncle's street in Woodland Hills smells of sunshine and eucalyptus. California!

Eric arrived one day late, on Friday; his bags have still not arrived. Midday before his arrival, I was treated to a rare glimpse of blue sky and sunshine while walking to town for lunch. Otherwise, we have seen neither sun nor star—so we are treated by Ecuadorian winter. Montañita is warm, all the same, and the ocean water feels good, but the sea has been choppy and messy and no good for surfing. Oh, well. We persist happily all the same. There is relaxing and eating and drinking to do, and we are damn good at it all.

I will be in Seattle in one week. What have I been doing? How has this time passed so quickly? Part of the answer are the multiple thirty-hour bus rides I braved to make my way up the Pacific Coast. What else, after Buenos Aires?

I spent just over a week in Mendoza and, despite some sickness between weekends, managed to enjoy wine tastings with friends, relax in hot springs, and fall in love with one concierge at my hotel.

Uspallata offered a stunning taste of autumn in the Andes and a welcome time of peace and simplicity.

I never felt fully connected in Santiago and did not stay there over long. I did enjoy some delicious food and a lovely sunset.

Valparaíso had far more character, I thought. The city was beautiful, with all the colorful houses and hilltop neighborhoods and even perhaps because of the dilapidation and decay.

Arica treated me to delicious seafood stew and charming port town atmosphere and vistas.

Some bits of Peru felt like a happy return to Bolivia. Arequipa had a lovely small town feel, despite being quite a large city, and I think I could have stayed there happily for weeks.

As in Bolivia, I took any chance to drink chirimoya juice from the markets in Peru, and even converted to worship of this wondrous fruit a few travelers I met in a hostel there.

I even became instant friends with a group of locals drinking at dusk in the square of a hilltop neighborhood. Hugo (pictured below, center) and Mathilde offered me a place to stay in their home whenever I return to Arequipa.

I headed from Arequipa to Lima to meet with my mom, Melanie. We delighted in good food together and she made friends with cholitas and baby llamas in Cuzco.

And then—no big deal—my mom and I went to Macchu Pichu. Yes!

And now I'm in Ecuador.

I have, in the time spent writing now, lost track of bites suffered and mosquitoes slain. Time for bed, I think, safely away from their appetites. But still: how wondrous this life! And how happy I am in consideration of the good times past and the future coming in Seattle (and beyond).

Jump for joy!

My mother, Melanie, joined me in Lima on Tuesday night and is staying through next Tuesday night. ("Technically," she says, "it's Wednesday morning.") We were most sad that my father was unable to join her in this visit—work travel denied him such opportunity. Still, without our darling Fico, my mother and I are having a great time together experiencing Peru.

In Lima, mostly we ate. Sure, sure, we walked around downtown and saw a totally beautiful cathedral but the most important parts of Wednesday were surely the causas and ceviche at La Mar, a well-known and quite happening cebicheria near Miraflores.

After Macchu Pichu, my mother and I will return to Cuzco for a night and then fly back to Lima. Following her return to the United States, I will head north into Ecuador to begin my final week and a half on this adventure, Adventure 2010. I will meet Mr. Eric Mattson in Guayaquil and venture out to Montañita for sun, surf, and relaxation.

Granted, this time together is somewhat dependent on the (literal and metaphorical) fallout of the eruption of the Tungurahua volcano in Ecuador. The Guayaquil airport, presently: closed. My fingers are crossed... for Eric. Me, I'm taking a 24 hour bus from Lima to Guayaquil at one sixth the price of a flight.

I might have mentioned that I am quite excited to return to Seattle? I sure hope the Guayaquil airport has international flights departing by the 12th. 14 days, and counting!

The day was Thursday the 4th of March in the year 2010.

I love Cochabamba. It happened suddenly—that morning, I think, in fact, yes. I love Cochabamba. I don't know how to describe this sentiment really. I don't even know how to describe this city fully. But it's a good city.

I put a good amount of pavement under my feet that day and the day previous. Perhaps I was finally connected?

Mi tia drove me a bit into town, on her way to art class, and then I walked a good length of blocks to reach la Plaza Colon, stopping to photograph whatever and walk my forehead into a low-hanging branch. I considered blonde, naked mermaid mosaics in a fountain and visited a gorgeous church. I installed myself at Cafe Casablanca for orange-carrot juice, cappuccino, laptop work and a friendly connection with Nima. He was wearing a Red Sox cap; he is Iranian and has family in Boston and a brother in Tehran and two years of residency in Bolivia. We chatted about the relative merits of countries and government and he offered me the cookies baked there, in this Italian-founded cafe. What a small, wondrous world.

I caught a taxi to my cousins' house for lunch, joining Mauricio, Nicole, Natalia, Pablo and, of course, mi tia Tuti. They served me richly, of course: salteñas, menudino, pan, and a delicious meringue, whipped cream and strawberry cake. They offered insight on Bolivia and brilliant recommendations for my time in other parts. I took photographs; we said our goodbyes.

Mauricio dropped me off at la casa de Simón Patiño. The mine tycoon was at once one of the five wealthiest people in the world. He and his wife were building a new house in Cochabamba but, sadly, the house was never completed before he died. After his death, and the passing of his family's time in the house, it became a museum and the seat of an arts foundation. There was beautiful (modern) Bolivian sculpture all throughout the grounds and in a special exhibition within the house.

I saw a piece of art there and the image and title of this work were a not-so-metaphorical representation of recent events in my life. And I laughed in joy and surprise: I felt stronger for the first time.

The house closed at four o'clock, so I walked down to la Recoleta for a refreshing maricuya frozen at Juice'Zen. See, Mauricio and some associates started an ice cream franchise—this specific shop was owned and run by his mother. I then called the cab company and secured a dedicated driver for the next few hours of my afternoon.

El taxista picked me up at la Recoleta and we were off—he drove me first to Cristo de la Concordia. I had gone the Sunday before, wanting the chance to climb inside Jesus, which you can only do on Sundays (duh), but was completely thwarted by the rain. I could neither climb inside nor see a damn thing of the city.

But I was back and it was a beautiful day.

Cristo de la Concordia is the tallest statue of Jesus in the world, beating out Rio by a few meters. He sits atop a hill in the middle of the city, with gorgeous views of everything in the surrounding valley. I was more than happy to sit and walk in the sun, considering the huge friggin' statue and the changing light and vistas of Cochabamba.

I considered staying for the sunset but there was limited light remaining for my final stop.

I was heading to Calle Carlos d'Avis.

So, my name is Carlos Andrés d'Avis. This is a good name. This was the name of the father of my father—mi abuelo, who tragically died when my father, Federico, was quite young. But Señor d'Avis was a famous doctor in Bolivia and once even the mayor of Cochabamba. He lived a good life, maybe even a great life? So he has a street; it's only three blocks long. How long is your street? You don't have a street? That's what I thought.

El taxista found it without problem—I had, in fact, been there once before, late at night with Mauricio, but without my camera or sufficient light to photograph. I walked around my street—the street of my namesake and grandfather—and I felt connected. Here was proof of my life and of the history of our family and of the lasting impression and memory of a bit of good work.

I was leaving Cochabamba the next day. I had a sight or so to see, and mi Tio Carlos y Tia Ida with whom to lunch, but I felt that I had found my heart of Cochabamba. I was happy and I was triumphant and it was a good day in Cochabamba.

That is not their house. That is a cathedral.

Santa Cruz de la Sierra is a modern city of 1.5 million, in south central Bolivia. The economy and population have grown rapidly in the last few decades and the city has expanded outward in concentric rings. This expansion and the focus on commerce have not resulted in the most beautiful city, I will admit, but the center plaza has its charms. Also, I enjoyed a wide range of delicious food, at family's tables and at restaurants, in cuisine local and international. And there was one case of both at mi prima Claudia's restaurant, where I ate excellent salteñas and pique macho.

The Ovando family originally lived in Cochabamba—as did the d'Avis family—but relocated some years ago to Santa Cruz. (Gabriela Ovando and her husband, Jorge Barrero, live in Florida.) I was so pleased to reconnect with Sergio, Yovana, Jaime y su familia, Claudia y su familia, and of course the family matriarch, Doña Florencia. I had not been in Bolivia or seen any of them for twenty years! Their kindness and hospitality were overflowing and I am so thankful.

Jaime, pictured above, took me four-wheeling near Porongo one Saturday afternoon. We may have almost gotten stuck in the mud, but I had a brilliant time with him and his friends. Zooming along dried-up river beds was particularly great, as was the sunset from such a locale. The countryside surrounding Santa Cruz is lush and verdant and just gorgeous.

Yovana and Sergio likewise took me out into the country on the Monday of Carnaval. We drove up into the mountains and jungle to reach the town of Samaipata, at an elevation of 1600 meters. After feijoada for lunch at El Pueblito restaurant and resort, I photographed the surrounding hillsides and my hosts had a bit of a lark.

Regretting our lunch beers a bit, we hauled our full bellies up a few hundred more meters to visit El Fuerte de Samaipata. The main local attraction are these Incan ruins, marking the furthest east extension of the Incan empire. We tried to see the carvings worn away in the stone, imagined the layout of the community, and were unimpressed by the depth of the prisoner hole.

Overwhelming, the countryside was just gorgeous and completely different than I expected from Bolivia.

I suppose that is all I have for now? I was able to work quite a bit in Santa Cruz; I was not particularly busy socially and that was actually good. I am keeping some record, as I am able, of food and wine in my written journal and I will try to put together a summary soon. Family, friends, more food and drink, and more work here in Cochabamba are occupying me presently. Sometimes there is too much life to recount. Sometimes there are horses to stand in, yo.

Signing off, for now, this is Carlos Andrés d'Avis, Rey de Caballos Oscuros.

* I cannot presently offer the photographs from my single night out in Santa Cruz during Carnaval—they do not yet reside on the Flickr. In summary, I drank beer, saw a parade and got shaving cream on my head.

I am pictured above on the morning of my departure from the United States, on January 4th, 2010. My mother took this photograph in our house in Hamilton, Massachusetts.

I appear to have many possessions with me—two bags-full, in fact—and such is true. I had to choose those items such as socks, shirts, books, electronics, etc. that would last and satisfy me throughout journeys somewhat indeterminate. Do you know how many awesome t-shirts I have, not to mention button-downs? It's a bunch, for serious, and it was no simple task to elect apparel companions for my southern sojourn.

In other news, and themed similarly, I made a few changes to the website here and added a little view of my time abroad, titled "Morning Carlos." Here's a hint: if you want to be happy, look for some happiness, and click on it. (It's up there at the top! It's a SMILEY FACE!) So far, I have only missed documenting myself one morning since I began the trip. I will do my best!

And I was leaving—why sleep when such so deprives me of the beautiful faces of my friends and of their laughter and of their embraces? Especially in parting, I never have much luck staying away from overwhelming emotion and bittersweet embraces. My recent days have just so many goodbyes. I never have much luck speaking and believing and feeling "see you later." No matter faith, I say "goodbye."

Today was a slow day of eating and packing and coffee and couch moving and goodbye and goodbye and goodbye. Steve, Lucy and I were the final guests to remain, escaping eventually the Boeke-Ganzell Blackhole of Love and Mirth and up the road to Baltimore.

I remain now in Baltimore, waiting and wishing I were not waiting when so much is about to begin but instead nestled happily in some familiar and warm bed. I have packing to do (tomorrow) and I should be sleeping now so that I can pack (tomorrow). And I need a pair of sunglasses and maybe some chinos and certainly a decision concerning the fate, packed or left, of my hiking boots. I never have much luck staying on top of all my little tasks and lists and feeling prepared for the changes in my life. And we all know that luck has nothing whatsoever to do with anything.

I have never spent a Christmas apart from my parents. If this were a competition, I would note that my sister, Nicole, once spent Christmas in México during college. (What, Nicole, what?) When will I break this pattern, and for what reason? I cannot yet imagine, or rather, the life matters I can imagine are so so far away from me.

I will revisit now my promise to Nicole that I would return to Massachusetts (if and) when she and Mark have children. This promise stands firm, with no regard for its resultant emotions, good and bad, on various coasts, east and west. Babies! Also: possibly temporary move!

On December 11th, at my going-away party, I made a promise to my closest Seattle friends that I would return to that fair city for my next birthday. I stand firm here, again, whether or not I was drinking whiskey sours when the promise was made, and whether or not Sarah makes the best damn shepherd's pie. Which she does. My friends, I made a promise but I need not have: I love you all and I will be back. Sooner, and December 9th, 2010, and later.

I gave my word once, and I broke it, and I have continued to break it over and over again. Specifically, I promised a girlfriend that I would not talk on the cell phone and drive at the same time—my adherence to such lasted through the end of our relationship. Now, well, I will not discuss my specific iPhone habits while driving but suffice it to say that they are AWESOME. Um, sorry?

The remaining promises I make, the commitments I hold dear and true, are nothing more than whispers into winter air. I am a free man, unfettered: catch me before I float away on a warm breeze. Catch me, hold me down: I promise that I'll promise you whatever you like, especially if it's bourbon.

Goodnight, and Merry Christmas.